Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  But you know, I hardly noticed all my favorite things because I was so enthralled with Dan and Vicky, new friends who had such interesting stories to tell. We have so much in common when it comes to what we love and care about; especially Paris. It was one of those nights when you share stories from your past, and even probably past lives. I know that there is a thread that connects the three of us. And every now and then I heard Daniele doing one of his amazing drum solos, and Philippe came by to be sure that we had everything we needed, and the restaurant was filled with happy Parisians, and outside Sacré-Coeur loomed above us in the Paris night. But for the most part, my focus was on Dan and Vicky. I honestly couldn’t tell you anything about my meal! I know I put away a good bit of Côte du Rhône and lingered over THREE cognacs (can that be?!) and I had a bit of a headache this morning (or rather this noon, when I finally got out of bed!) .

  Fast forward to today’s late-ish lunch. I wandered down to Les Loups where the wonderful Raphael was behind the bar. He is one of the loveliest Parisians you will ever meet. He went over today’s ardoise (blackboard) and I got way ahead of myself, ordering an entree and a plat. I turned on my kindle and as I said, read the prologue of the new book. I was reminded of what I have been told by some of my restaurant friends: Quand tu manges; manges! Quand tu travailles; travailles! So I turned off my Kindle and paid attention to what I was eating.

  My starter was a wonderful terrine de chevre; shavings of celeriac with olive oil and parsley, tart marinated peppers and earthy creamy goat cheese. I was mindful to really taste every delicious bite. Then came the osso bucco. The savory, melt in your mouth veal with the bone full of sinfully rich bone marrow (moelle en français... if you see it on a menu GET IT!) and a lovely tomato sauce full of carrots and other vegetables. It was amazing. I concentrated on being aware of the cool breeze that wafted in from the wall of windows looking out on an expanse of leafy trees and Parisian rooftops across the way. I listened to the soft music, the perfect accompaniment, not too loud but not muzac. I noticed the only other diner, a good looking mec with a man bun eating steak frites and talking on his phone. I tasted my water, cool and fresh. Wine has become such a habit for me in Paris. Maybe I need to appreciate water more!

  And after I nursed a café américian while I read the first two of the author’s 12 walks.

  What I took away from this were several things. First, while I know many people are loathe to eat alone and bring a book or a journal or any number of other distractions to keep them company, it’s pretty darn amazing to eat alone and really really enjoy a meal. It is truly the only way that I actually pay close attention to what I’m eating. Second, nights like last night are true highlights of life. Remember to savor every aspect of them; the music (merci, Daniele), the food (merci, Philippe) and the companionship (merci Dan and Vicky). Appreciate the big moments and the small moments. These are the best days of our lives!

  On the way home I tried to really notice the things on my street; the things in the window of the pharmacy, the chasses roues next to the doors of an apartment entrance, the waning days of someone’s small vegetable garden under a tree, the changing seasonal produce on offer at the produce stand... then I had to go to the bathroom, so I hurried.

  Busting Myths

  Paris is a big and very diverse city. It’s also world famous for many things, some of which are just not true. The French are rude. Parisians never go out without being dressed to the nines and well coiffed and made up. French women don’t get fat.

  Well I’m here to tell you that those are myths. Paris is made up of so many different cultures and nationalities and neighborhoods that it’s simply impossible to stereotype Parisians. Other than maybe, they speak French! And English. And Spanish. And German. And Farsi. And you name it.

  Roughly fifteen percent of the population of Paris is Muslim (5 million in France). Just a couple of blocks from my home, the streets are full of colorfully dressed women in African print dresses with their heads elaborately wrapped in colorful fabric tied in creative knots. They walk side by side with women in hijabs, men looking like they may have slept on the sidewalk, men touting watches and cell phones and trinkets and others trying to get passers-by to play their moveable games of which cup is the pea under.

  I watched out the window this morning as the street came alive. An old woman with hair color not found in nature wore a strange cotton top, with a big fanny pack hanging from the front, cropped pants and sneakers, pulling her shopping cart. Most people heading downhill to work or school or wherever they go every morning wear jeans and tennis shoes. Moms and/or Dads with kids in tow lug backpacks, some on scooters. Occasionally a pretty girl goes by in a dress with sandals. This morning it was lightly raining so no sandals. Everyone had umbrellas. Everyone in a rush. Nobody really paying attention to what anyone wears. As I type this a young multi-ethnic guy walked by with a six inch spiky mohawk and at least a dozen facial piercings. And headphones. So many people walk down the street with either full on headphones or iPhone earpieces. Everyone is tuned into their own world.

  People come in all shapes and sizes. Caroleen wrote her terribly offensive blog post about the obese American in the butcher shop who set the neighborhood reeling. Ironically, the butcher himself is quite rotund; certainly bigger than me. There are a great number of very thin French women. If you watch them on the terrasses of cafés, they are the ones who eat six cigarettes and a glass of wine for lunch, carefully holding the cigarette so the smoke goes towards you and not their dining companion. They are also the women who twenty years later are overly wrinkled and overly tanned. There seems to be little education about the dangers of smoking and tanning. It boggles my mind how many Parisians do both.

  I do not find the French to be particularly rude. In fact, I would have to say my experience is quite the opposite. I have noticed when you are hanging out in heavily touristed areas waiters are a bit less friendly. I invited friends to join me on rue des Abbesses and made reservations for four for dinner. I showed up early and wanted to sit on the terrace for a glass of wine. The waiter tried to redirect me from the table I had chosen to one right next to one where a guy was talking into his phone earpiece and smoking. I argued for a different table, saying (in French) that I was waiting for friends and that we had a reservation. He instantly turned into rude Parisian. For the rest of the evening we got pretty lousy service. Maybe he was rude before I asked for the different table and would have been rude the whole time. He worked in tourist central. Can I blame him for being rude?

  I’ve noticed that when the client is rude, a waiter can be really good at being even more difficult. My nineteen year old granddaughter particularly experienced some rude service. But she would relentlessly drill the server about the items on the menu: Was this vegetarian? Describe this! The lesson being, you get what you give. In Paris as anywhere. Ninety nine percent of Parisians I come into contact with in business situations are absolutely lovely and helpful. Just like anywhere in the world, there are crazy people on the street, pushy people who will cut you off in line at the grocery store. A bus driver may zoom off even though he sees you running to get on. My friend who is white insists it’s because he was black and we are white. I don’t agree.

  Some things remain true. I’ve never seen a French person with a beret. But I have seen plenty of men in blue striped shirts.

  The Threat of Homelessness Hangs Over Me

  While I filled my days with writing and lunches and daydreaming over Philippe, by night I was met by worries and the fear that I would not find a satisfactory solution to my homelessness dilemma. I lay in bed thinking about all the possible scenarios. If I move out for six months, can I come back and stay for a year? Where can I go for six months? What are the chances the owner will come for six months and decide to stay forever? Is the other apartment near Cépage available? The apartment on rue Lamark My new friends had just showed me their apartment on the stairs by rue Lamarck (just ne
xt door to Caroleen): would it be somewhere I could see myself living. Probably not. But in a pinch? Next door to Caroleen? But also next door to the lovely bartender who made me the handcrafted Sidecar. Then Silvie told me the owners were putting it on the market! Would I be interested in buying it? Only 650,000 euros!

  “Well, to start with,” I replied, “I think it’s about one hundred thousand euro overvalued!”

  “Noooo, I don’t think so.” answered Silvie.

  That apartment for 650,000 euro! Clearly I am not in a buying mode.

  Where do I even begin to look for a new apartment? Am I ready to leave rue Caulaincourt? Am I ready maybe to leave Montmartre? Could I find an unfurnished, unrepresented apartment and maybe pay less and spend the difference on furnishings of my own choosing? And how on earth do I do all of this in French?

  I finally drifted off to sleep thinking that this could be my opportunity to really take that leap of faith; to assume that this is all going to be for the better. Six months from now I will look back on this and realize that it was all good. I’ll be in a wonderful apartment with perfect furnishings and everything I want. I’ll be even happier than I am today!

  I spent the next couple of weeks adjusting to the idea, letting it roll around in my head as options presented themselves to me. My long honed instincts to “cross that bridge when we get to it” kicked in and I mulled. The bridge loomed five months and two weeks away. That was a good thing. On the other hand, if I started looking now and found something I was stuck in a lease for that same five months and two weeks. Would I have to pay the lease in full?

  The option list grew. Maybe, just maybe, there are apartments that are nice on a street other than mine. Maybe even another arrondissement might not be the end of the world. I spend a lot of time in the ninth. Maybe I should look there as well. Maybe the owner will decide she doesn’t like living in Paris so very much and will leave and let me rent forever after. Maybe she will find she doesn’t ever want to live in her apartment again and then will decide to sell it! Maybe I can buy it. Maybe I won’t be able to afford it! Maybe I should move for six months to somewhere outside of Paris; explore another town or even a little quiet place in the country somewhere. March is cold and rainy most places. But June and July and August are hot in Paris and it wouldn’t be so bad to live somewhere different. Maybe St. Malo!

  I started sharing my plight with different friends. Each offered their advice, mostly with a personal bias attached. Evelyn said “I will introduce you to Jean-Claude. He was my apartment finder. He is excellent and very very discreet! You can trust that he will not share any of your personal details with anyone.” (Evelyn is very private.)

  “You want a two bedroom apartment!” she continued. “How many square meters is your current apartment?”

  “53” I mumbled

  “Oh, too small! You need much more than that.”

  I tried to explain all of the little details about my apartment that made it perfect, none of which had anything to do with square meters. Yes, it’s small, but I’m one person. I don’t need big. I need a wall of windows. I need to be on the curve of my street; the very best street in Paris. I need to see the produce vendor set up his shop in the morning and put it to bed at night. I need to keep track of the hours the rug seller keeps and watch him stand in front of his shop. I need to see the Lebanese deli man visiting with the florist every morning. I need to be able to walk out the door and go to the butcher shop, where I have finally cracked the growling butcher into friendly smiles and small talk, to la boulangerie, to la cave for a word of advice from Monsieur Vincent about what wine will go good with what I’m planning to serve at my apéro, to visit my friendly cheese monger and get advice about what cheeses will make my perfect cheese board. I need to be able to pop into Les Loups and Cépage and Café de la Butte. And when I come home, from wherever I’ve wandered, I need to hear the boys in the minimarket downstairs say “How is the American girl?”

  Oh Whaaaa. I won’t be the American girl in the building anymore. Somebody else will be that person.

  An email comes from Evelyn, I was copied on her email to Jean-Claude:

  “Hello Jean-Claude,

  I am trusting you and your family are doing well.

  My friend, also an American, would like to rent an apartment beginning 15 January 2019.

  She has been advised by her current landlord that he wishes to beginning living in her apartment, at the end of her lease. She seeks a large one bedroom or small two bedroom unfurnished apartment.

  Would you be able to assist her in this search? I have recommended her to you, based upon the excellent knowledge and attention to detail in this market.

  I have copied her on this email so that you can contact her directly.

  As always I send my best regards.”

  Well, sort of. Let’s say the end of February. And the two bedroom is Evelyn’s idea. For the one percent of time anyone would be staying in the second bedroom, I am not eager to pay the extra euros every month. Besides, what I need when guests come is another bathroom! But more importantly, what Evelyn doesn’t get is that the most important thing to me is location. Not only location, but what I see when I look out the window; where I am when I walk out the door.

  Following the email a text from Evelyn:

  I hope Jean-Claude has made your acquaintance and you will be able to find a new home. I was thinking - you could possibly begin to start thinking about art now. I suggest looking at the prints by Willy Ronis. Also Peter Turnley. I may be able to obtain a Peter Turnley print(s) for only $500 each. Also perhaps just looking at galleries…”

  Oh my goodness. First I need a bed. And a sofa and a dining table and chairs. And then book shelves. Art? Galleries? No, first I need an apartment!

  An email from Stephanie tells me that the apartment at Cépage is available from March 1 to April 22. That gives me another six weeks in my own neighborhood.

  So many moving parts. So many options. Sorry Caroleen, I don’t think I’ll be rushing back home soon.

  L’Appartement de Architectural Digest

  My friends Dan and Vicky were invited to stay at the apartment of one of Dan’s clients in Hollywood. The client is a designer. Not just your everyday ordinary designer. He buys and renovates châteaux, specifically châteaux of the Loire Valley. The apartment is in the 8ème, very close to the British Embassy. Dan and Vicki asked me to come for apéro last night and then go to dinner at a restaurant nearby.

  Fall has officially found its way to Paris. The evening was clear and fresh. Vicky had tex ted me the address but not the building passcode or floor so I texted them from the Uber. I arrived a bit early and noticed a fancy liquor store across the street so popped in thinking to buy a nice bottle of wine. Nope. The store had only very expensive whiskies, all behind glass and subtly lit to show off the bottles’ best effects. No prices anywhere. No doubt one of those “if you have to ask” situations.

  Still no response from Dan or Vicky so I went to the small cafe on the opposite corner and got a glass of wine. My mind was doing all of its usual paranoid tricks. Is it the right day? Is it the right place? I looked repeatedly at the initial text invitation. Yes and yes. I texted with daughter number two at home. “Are you wearing slippers?” she asked. “Are you walking to school in your slippers on Saturday?” “Maybe they are looking out the window at you laughing!”

  I’ve got enough of my own paranoid delusions. I don’t need to add hers to the mix!

  Finally, at least half an hour after the appointed time a text came from Dan. “365B”

  I enter the lobby of course to find the second door, this one with a buzzer to push for the owner. I push and nothing happens. Suddenly Dan appears to bring me the rest of the way.

  The apartment, which I had already perused on the Architectural Digest link I googled, was indeed extraordinary. Facing the street were a large lovely sa
lon, a beautiful home office, a massive formal dining room and one of the two guest bedrooms. There was a smallish kitchen, complete with everything one would need to prepare a meal, but I suspect actual meals have not often been prepared here, and an actual laundry room. The master bedroom was locked, bringing to mind BlueBeard.

  It was all a bit too Louis XIV for me (more accurately Napoleon III) and it would take a year to notice all of the details, from the sculpted molded ceilings to the marble fireplaces and crystal chandeliers (in each room) to the vintage antique furniture. As I settled in to an antique white armchair, Vicki thoughtfully offered me a glass of red wine. Dan and Vicky are very Californian and drink Chardonnay but they noticed that I prefer red. Dare I accept a glass of red wine in this room? On this chair? Mais oui! On the massive glass topped coffee table, along with piles of design books and other bits of porcelain odds and ends was a beautiful cheese board, a basket of bread and crackers, and a bowl of nuts.

  For the next hour we talked about the owner, relationships and our mutual love for Paris while I carefully balanced the glass of red wine and took in all of the rooms decorations. The man must spend all of his time in antique shops! On a table between the two huge French windows was a three foot marble bust, a torso only. I was on my second glass of red when I suddenly noticed two taxidermied foxes (looking a little worse for wear) on the floor in the corner. In my surprise I jostled my glass and spilled a quick slop of wine! Fortunately only on my black slacks, not the white fabric of the chair or the antique carpet beneath my feet!

  I could have stayed all evening in that room, drinking wine, feasting on the cheese platter and noticing new things. However, Dan and Vicky had a dinner planned. So we had to leave. We wandered down rue d’Anjou toward Palais Borghese the home of the British Ambassador, where there was an elaborate formal event in full swing. The open doors to the massive courtyard tempted us to slip in and take a closer look, but we continued on rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, looking into all the closed but brightly lit windows of the fashion houses, showing off their best for fashion week, happening now. We walked along a few more blocks, Vicki the fashion fiend taking photos of the size zero dresses and the impossible to walk-in shoes in the various windows.